Conversational post-mortem...

There are seventy two cents on my coffee table when I tell him we've made a mistake.

He knows something's wrong, has to, as he climbs the thousand stairs to my apartment. I don't ask him over 'to talk.' I've never begged for his company before. He's not an idiot.

Ok, sometime's he's an idiot.

I can see his eyes when I say the words no guy really ever wants to hear. I guess I'm somehow surprised they're still blue. These can't be the same eyes I've looked at a thousand times, laughed into and loved at one point. This is an expression I've only just recently understood, one I've mastered myself. Shock and terror, an entangled mass of worry that blinds you instantly to anything else. I keep speaking. He can't hear me.

There are words in his head, angry ones, sad ones... Questions that beg themselves into life. None of them seem to matter enough to make it out of his mouth. The air's too heavy, hanging in the small apartment, threatening to suffocate them both at any moment.

I know this man, sometimes, more than he knows himself. I know his beliefs, his plans, and his dreams, as well as I know my own. At one point in our lives, they were in sync. We wanted each other forever, loved each other because we had no concept of it. That was a long time ago...

His thoughts are echoing mine now, racing back in time to the love that was, the connection that we shattered months back. Icicles hitting the sidewalk in spring, melting away into nothing with the sun. We were fire and ice in impossible harmony, passion and temptation in a dead heat for first. When we were, we were exquisite.

That was so long ago. We aren't there now and we both know it. It's funny though, the things you forget when faced with this. I don't seem to know anything now. What I want, who I am...

...who we are.

He reaches for a cigarette and starts to pace. There's isn't a lot of room. I light my own cigarette and stare at like it's going to give me all the answers. I stay on the couch. He moves like a caged animal around the space, all sharp turns and harsh exhales. He's lost. We both are.

He turns to me after what feels like eternity, and says, eyes red and face drawn, "Ok. Let's talk about this."

I prepare myself for the longest night of my life. And as I light another cigarette and become more of an adult than I've ever been, I stare at the coins on the coffee table.

And childishly wish that any of this made sense.